My dad was not the perfect man. He had a big problem with alcohol. It ended up killing him at age 48 right before I turned 18. So many stories of drunken escapades can be told. But I loved him for the man that he was when, as my grandmother would say, when he didn’t have the drink in him.

My dad knew how to grow things. Our garden was amazing. We had a plum tree, tangerine tree, peach tree, orange tree, roses, vegetables, flowers, cactus and succulents galore. We would often sit in the yard together and dig out the weeds from the lawn. He taught me about pruning, mulching, planting, and care for all our plants. He would take me with him to the nursery and show me how to pick out healthy plants.

My dad knew how to sew. He would make us clothes. He made my prom dress. He made me a handbag for school. He recovered a couch and a chair. I learned how to sew and that sometimes swearing at the project is necessary. I still have his sewing machine and still use it.

My dad knew how to crochet. He entered the Del Mar Fair with two of his bedspreads and won first place in the general category. One has an amazing pineapple design; the other has 3-D roses. These were to be my brother and my wedding presents. Neither he nor my brother lived long enough for that. I have them both along with a few other pieces of his.

I spent many hours playing cards with him. He would sit in his chair, the ottoman was the playing surface, and I’d be on the floor in front of him. He taught me how to shuffle. This is one of my special memories of him.

We painted and wallpapered stuff around the house together. I was always his helper. My brother was busy being a bookworm genius resentful of any interruptions. I was more than happy to spend time with my dad. Whenever we painted, I was in charge of painting the left-handed corners of things. He seemed to be able to invent solutions to household repairs. I fully accept my unusual way of thinking about problems as well as my stubborn streak from his examples.

He taught me how to pack efficiently. He took some suitcases and a couple of boxes out to the car one day. He said, “See if you can fit all this into the trunk.” He guided me with, “Try to turn it that way,” and “Now that will fit over there.” He had me unpack it, got a couple more boxes, and had me pack it again. I attribute my Tetris packing skills to this valuable lesson.

After my father’s death, more than one person had been more than freaked out just how like him I am. I speak like him without the Indiana accent – the phraseology and the gestures are his. I look like him. I have had more than one person ask when I took the old-timey picture in drag that is his high school photo. I have both my parents silly sense of humor and his playful attitude.

I miss my dad. I’d like to show him my cactus and succulent collection. I’d like to make him an amazing dinner. I’d like to play a game of cards with him. Mostly, I’d like to hear him laugh again.

Thanks for being the best dad you knew how to be. Happy Father’s day Daddy, wherever you are.

I just spent 2 hours looking for jobs - again. I do this at least once a week. Sending out resumes, filling in annoying applications, and trying to find something in my salary range. That part is stupid hard right now. Admin asst. jobs have all been cut. I used to send out 50-60 resumes a week in the past. Now I’m lucky if I can squeeze 20 out. All the jobs listed are way under paid, part-time, and no benefits. I’ve been looking since Jan – still nothing.

Part of my problem is my spotty job record. I worked at a coffeehouse for 10 years. Opened the door and helped the first customer. But the $8/hour was getting me nowhere. On the advice of my stepfather, I went to the corporate world. Since then, I haven’t kept a job for more than one year – in 15years! Budget cuts, bankruptcies, and psychos have made this impossible. Now with the economy in this false fear attitude, no one is hiring. The university that hires people all the time is canceling jobs or just keeping them open until they can afford it. Mind you, none of these places have actually lost any business, none of their money is different, and there is no excuse.

I wish there was a way to not have to get a regular job. I wish that my home business (that has only lost money for 7 years) could get me by. Nothing I’ve tried has worked – in fact all attempts have only cost me thousands of dollars with zero return.

I wish my job at the Book Mine could pay me the salary I need/deserve with some health benefits. The furry purry love I get there is wonderful and my heart has healed from that awful place I was in a year ago with the Russian Prison Matron. I feel so much better. To go to work each day and have everyone happy that I showed up is amazing. Dancing kitty feet waiting for pets makes me smile.

Or win the lotto. Are these things too much to ask?

One evening, Bonnie came to give Laura her good night kisses. The goodnight kisses are Laura’s favorite time of day.

“Put in your earplugs. The dinosaurs are coming in the morning.” Bonnie said sweetly.

This could only mean one thing. It would be Friday morning and come the dawn the garbage trucks would be roaring and banging and making all sorts of ungodly noise for that time in the morning. Kind of like if a T-Rex were on the job, picking up the cans, screeching to the sky over his found treasure, devouring the contents, and slamming the empties back on the curb. If I indeed wanted to sleep, earplugs would be the way to go.

I offer you this pictorial of our street with our new garbage man. Thank you Photoshop for making my imagination come to life.

The book I’m working this morning took me back, way back. “The Principle of Horseshoeing” by Doug Butler has me dreaming.

Long ago and far away, I rode horses. I took riding lessons on a giant Belgium draft named Chestnut. He was blind in one eye and my little twelve-year-old legs barely reached his sides. I learned how to get this gentle giant to perform the most intricate dressage patterns. I would bring him apples and carrots for treats and he would return the favor with giant horsey love. My riding instructor was this cute teenager, probably one of my first few girl crushes. She had long, shining blonde hair. She was very proud of me and we often went on riding excursions, just the two of us.

My grandmother would go over to the Alpha Beta everyday and sit at the lunch counter for a couple of hours in the afternoon. She used to be a waitress in a diner back in the day and found the camaraderie there stimulating. One of the fellows was a traveling farrier. A thin man with black hair and black rim glasses, he was as kind as his hands were calloused. My grandmother encouraged me to befriend him. He told me he’d like me to be his apprentice. He took me a few times to jobs and showed me the trade. I learned to clean hooves, pick the right shoes, and take off old ones.

He gave me a horseshoe and told me it was from the great Secretariat who had won the Kentucky Derby earlier that year. I hung it over my bedroom door. I started to learn about grooming from my trainer at this time as well. This was a happy time for me.

Then one day he stopped coming to the lunch counter. I never saw him again. I guess another big racing team picked him up. Shortly after this, my lessons were to advance to jumping and a higher price. My father decided it was too much money. We didn’t have much and it was pretty extravagant that I got to take lessons at all. I was heart broken but knew our family couldn’t afford it.

My horse years were over. I get nostalgic over horsies from time to time. Like today.